


wrapping paper

by Waywarder



Series: Simply Having an Ineffable Christmastime [13]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Sweetheart, Dealing With Trauma, I'm Sorry That I Keep Making These Sad, Sometimes Christmas Is Sad Yo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:21:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21782101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waywarder/pseuds/Waywarder
Summary: In which Aziraphale goes for a walk and deals with some unpleasant memories.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Simply Having an Ineffable Christmastime [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1558789
Comments: 14
Kudos: 99





	wrapping paper

He would be back long before Crowley even woke up, he reasoned. 

So, Aziraphale wandered down the streets of New York that morning, not a care in the world. Well, alright, that’s not fair. Aziraphale had so many cares in the world, but each one of them lit him up from the inside. Aziraphale liked to have a purpose, liked to have a plan. He liked to care. Today they would find some chestnuts, they would take in a show, they would walk arm in arm through the city, looking at lights and decorations and delicately wrapped presents in shop windows.

It was all going to be perfect. Aziraphale smiled freely as he walked through the crowds. He noted the families, the friends, the lovers, the dreamers that called this city home. He felt so peaceful-- 

Suddenly, someone shoved into him. 

Not on purpose. Not even violently. It was the morning in New York City; they were just trying to go somewhere. 

But it was enough. 

This happened in the hustle and bustle of London too, of course. It happened everywhere, anywhere. But it was always particularly upsetting on a crowded street. It always took him back to the same place, the same awful moment. 

_We’ve just been learning some rather disturbing things about you. You’ve been a bit of a fallen angel, haven’t you?_

And Aziraphale found his breath coming more quickly. His eyes darted around his fellow New York street travelers, his heart lurching at every speck of white or silver or cream. Because, of course, they could find him in New York. Of course the few months of peace he’d enjoyed were finally coming to an end. Of course something bad was going to happen.

_They’re not here,_ A kind voice in his head offered. 

Aziraphale slowed his breathing, hugged himself against the chill in the air, willing his insides to stay in place.

_What if they’re with Crowley?_ The cruelest voice he could conjure. The book and lyrics of his nightmares. 

Aziraphale had perhaps never snapped his fingers so quickly.

And he was back in the hotel room they’d found after having been kicked out of the Ritz. It was also lovely, with silver and white striped wallpaper and emerald green curtains. The bed was unmade and empty. Panicked tears pricked in the corners of Aziraphale’s eyes.

_Wait,_ There was the kind voice. _What is real? Remember what is real._

Aziraphale paused, held his breath. 

The sound of a shower running. The sight of Crowley’s jacket slung over a green armchair. Crowley was here. Crowley was safe.

Aziraphale crossed to the armchair, and reached for Crowley’s jacket. He sat down in the chair. He thought of love. He thought of family. He remembered being punched in the stomach. He remembered the derisive way they’d said, “boyfriend in the dark glasses.” And, of course, he knew that they were not his family, he knew in his bones that they were not worthy of his love, of his loyalty, of his devotion...

Aziraphale knew all that. He was very smart.

But six thousand years is a lot to process, no matter how smart you are.

When Crowley emerged from the shower, towel slung over his hips, running his fingers through wet hair, calling out, “You’re back! Excellent. So, listen, I made us a breakfast reservation--,” he stopped at the sight of Aziraphale on the armchair, clutching Crowley’s jacket against his chest, and sobbing. 

Crowley felt sad, but not surprised. It had been a… big? Challenging? Human adjectives felt stupidly small in this context. It had been a _year_ for the both of them, and this wasn’t the last time that one of them was going to find the other one crying and shaking. 

Nightmares don’t care that you’re on holiday with your sweetheart. Trauma can’t taste the champagne from the night before, and recognize, “Oh, maybe this is a bad time.”

Crowley crossed the room to Aziraphale, and knelt down in front of him. Didn’t say anything. Didn’t promise that it would be okay, didn't tell him to shush. Crowley placed his hands on Aziraphale’s knees, and let the angel fall apart for as long as he needed. 

After a while, Crowley lifted a hand to Aziraphale’s tear-soaked face.

“Hey. Got you something.”

“Why?” Aziraphale asked, thick and watery.

He knew why. He needed to hear it.

“I love you, Aziraphale.”

Crowley gently tugged the jacket away from Aziraphale’s grasp, and reached into a pocket. He withdrew a small box, painstakingly gift wrapped. There was a goddamn bow on the top and everything. Crowley pushed the box into Aziraphale’s hand. 

Aziraphale’s fingers trembled against the beautiful wrapping paper. It’s a scary thing, opening something up, revealing it to the light of day. 

He couldn’t stop shaking. He admonished himself, because of course he did. _Just a little push on the street, and look at you, going to pieces._

Crowley took the box back from Aziraphale’s shaking hands. 

“I’m sorry,” choked Aziraphale.

“There’s time yet, angel,” Crowley said, yes, kindly. “If you think this is the only chance I’m taking to shower you with gifts, you’re daft.” 

And Aziraphale wanted to laugh, wanted to make a joke back, but he couldn’t stop crying. Because the holidays are full of sparkles and sugar plums, yes, but the year was also near an end, and reflection cannot help but rear its sometimes ugly head. The days grew darker, and there is only moving forward. And things-- especially changing things-- can be thrilling and liberating and _right,_ but also terrifying and lonely at the same time.

The chestnuts and the fabulous show and the beautiful decorations would all wait. Crowley offered a hand to Aziraphale, and led him back to bed. They turned the television set on, and found some fluffy show about competitively decorating gingerbread houses. And Aziraphale lay with his head on Crowley’s chest, the demon’s fingers stroking his hair softly, and he worked on remembering what was real.

**Author's Note:**

> I'M SO SORRY.
> 
> (For real, though: if the holidays are scary for you, if you've dealt with big change this year... I hope you know that you are not alone, and that you're doing so good.)
> 
> You're wonderful. Thank you for reading! I'm wiserandwaywarder at Tumblr, if you want to yell together about Good Omens over there.


End file.
